Mercy came knocking once, a pale wanderer draped in dawn, with weary eyes and gentle hands, carrying no sword, only the burden of understanding. But the wicked knew not her face. Their hearts were citadels of stone, where compassion died unnamed and every wound became a weapon. They barred the gates. For mercy is a stranger in the hearts of the wicked. She walks their halls unseen, a ghost among shadows, whispering of forgiveness to ears that worship vengeance. They drink from poisoned wells and call bitterness wisdom. They sharpen grief into blades and wear cruelty like a crown. Where mercy offers a bridge, they build a wall. Where mercy kneels, they strike. And so she leaves quietly, taking her light with her, while darkness settles deeper into chambers already cold. The wicked do not fear mercy, they fear what mercy reveals: that beneath their iron masks, beneath their kingdoms of pride, beneath the ruins they call strength, there lives a trembling truth they dare not face. For merc...
Nature did not come to me softly,
It found me when I was already breaking,
When my breath felt heavy in my chest
and my thoughts dragged like shadows
I could not outrun.
I was low,
sunken into a quiet emptiness
that no voice could reach,
No light could hold.
And then…
It touched me.
Not gently,
never gently.
It pressed against my skin
like something alive,
something watching,
something waiting
for me to surrender.
The wind curled around me first,
fingers tracing along my neck,
lifting my hair like a whisper
that knew my name before I spoke it.
I trembled.
Not from cold,
But from the way it felt
intentional.
Nature did not comfort me,
It awakened me.
The earth beneath my feet
felt closer than it should,
like it was pulling me down
only to hold me deeper,
to remind me
I was never separate from it.
And then the fire,
God, the fire.
It didn’t just burn,
it entered in me.
It moved through my veins
like a slow, rising heat,
curling into my chest,
spreading into places
that had long forgotten
how to feel.
Nature gave me fire,
and with it,
strength.
But not the kind
that stands quietly.
This strength hunts,
it breathes,
it desires.
It made my body remember
what it was to be alive,
not just to exist,
but to ache,
to crave,
to want something
so deeply
it feels like survival.
And I felt it,
that shift.
That's dangerous,
beautiful shift
from emptiness
to hunger.
The trees stood around me,
silent witnesses,
their shadows stretching
like hands reaching closer,
their stillness thick
with something unspoken.
I closed my eyes,
and in that darkness,
I felt it again.
Nature,
wrapping around me,
pressing into me,
holding me
like a lover
That does not ask permission.
There was romance in it,
but not the kind
soft enough to forget.
This was deep.
This was consuming.
This was the kind of closeness
that doesn’t stay on the surface,
it sinks in,
marks you,
claims you.
The air itself felt heavier,
charged with something
I could not escape,
something that made my skin
burn slowly,
like a secret
being uncovered.
I exhaled,
and it felt like a release,
like surrender,
like giving in
to something I had been denying
for far too long.
Nature gave me renewal,
But it came wrapped in desire.
Not just a desire for life,
but desire to feel,
to touch,
to be consumed
by something real.
My mind opened,
not in calm,
but in awakening.
Every thought sharpened,
every sense heightened,
every part of me
alive in a way.
That felt almost dangerous.
And I realized,
this was not just healing.
This was a transformation
laced with longing.
I was no longer empty.
I was no longer still.
I was burning.
And in that fire,
in that deep, intoxicating pull,
I found something I never expected:
A love,
wild, untamed,
and unapologetically intense.
A love that did not whisper,
but took.
A love that did not ask,
but claimed.
A love that did not fade,
but rooted itself
deep within me.
Nature did not just restore me,
it awakened a desire
I could never be silent again.
And now,
I don’t want to be saved from it.
I want to burn.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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